


ars poetica

by Esmenet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Poetry, Gen, talking about bad poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esmenet/pseuds/Esmenet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wizard poets are vanishingly rare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ars poetica

There have been many bad poems written about Hogwarts, in its time. (Some of them have been used to help fundraising.) A good portion of magical Britain spends its angsty teenage years in the place, so of _course_ they write poetry. Although typical subjects include love, sex, homework, and the unfairness of The Establishment (as embodied by teachers, prefects, et cetera) sometimes they do write about the structure they inhabit. Unfortunately, the school song is rather representative of mainstream lyrical talent in magical British society.

Very infrequently, there have been good ones. Words that spark and crackle in the mouth, that shine like a _lumos_ in the dark. Very rarely do wizards bother learning how to create these effects with mere words instead of magic, so when they do it is all the more striking. There have been few more than twenty truly great wizard-poets in Britain for the last thousand years, only five of whom wrote about Hogwarts. Of these, three are widely known. Two are obscure, the first for the age in which she wrote—witch-burnings not being terribly conducive to the spreading of magical literature—and the second for her youth.

The first of these was Isadora of London, a disowned daughter of the Malfoy family. Her poetry is collected in several volumes in the Hogwarts Library, and survives nowhere else.

The second is Tracey Davis. Hers is on bits and pieces of paper, tucked into library books and stuffed in the drawer of her bedside table. Someday, she will let someone read them.


End file.
